


Ablutions

by Sarah_Ellie



Series: Against His Heart [3]
Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Complete, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Skyfall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-21 03:26:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Ellie/pseuds/Sarah_Ellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q have grown closer during Bond's recovery. So close that Q becomes a target for a Cambodian terrorist cell bent on revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Un-Beta'd.

In the last month, Bond had healed significantly, but he was still in quite a bit of pain. He tried to hide it, but Q knew. He could see it in the tense hold of Bond’s shoulders, the set of his jaw, and the thinly-veiled frustration in his eyes. 

The mission in Cambodia was a month and a half behind them now. Bond had pulled through most of the original injuries without major damage, and was just waiting on his ribs and a few of his other more intense injuries to heal. The entirety of what had happened in those jungles were still somewhat of a mystery; MI6 hadn’t found any of the men who had ambushed Bond and it was two weeks before he was conscious to even tell the story. All they had left were a few straws to grasp at and a lot of speculation. This was complicated slightly by Q’s extended leave from MI6, so that he could assume the role of Bond’s primary caretaker. 

It had been decided, mostly without actual discussion, that Q would move into Bond’s flat. He was already spending an incredible amount of time there and most of his personal belongings had found their way onto different shelves or into drawers. Q couldn’t even remember the last time that he had bought food for his own flat. His refrigerator was empty, his cabinets were bare, and he wasn’t ever home to notice. 

Bond couldn’t assist with the move, so he facilitated the placement of Q’s belongings as the last of them trickled into the house. Q had thought that Bond would be more likely to have all of his things thrown away or hidden, and so he was surprised when Bond had instead cleared out the spare bedroom of its employment as storage so that Q could have an office. Together, they went through their things and boxed up the parts of their pasts that they didn’t feel the need to revisit and sent them off to the storage unit that Bond still had, courtesy of MI6. Q’s books went on the series of shelves that hung above Bond’s drink cart (Bond had never gotten around to filling the shelves) and his desk was propped up near a window in what was now his office. Unsure of what half of the technological gadgets were, Bond sent anything with a plug into the office to let Q sort them out on his own.

In all, Q’s things found a cozy home in the spaces that Bond had left bare. He didn’t mind the things that he had sent off to storage- Bond’s cutlery and flatware were nicer, for one thing, and his décor far less haphazard than Q’s had been, most likely because Q’s apartment had been furnished by Ikea. 

It was when Bond picked up the photograph of the two of them- taken outside of a bar in a haze of cigarette smoke- and placed it on the mantle between the photograph of his parents and the small porcelain bulldog that had been M’s that Q truly realized the permanence of what they had done. 

“Q, what’s wrong?” Bond had limped into the room, leaning heavily on the back of the sofa for support. Q turned away from the mantle and gave Bond a small smile. 

“Nothing James. Just looking.” Q said with a small smile. He walked to the back of the couch so that he could take Bond’s arm. He pretended that he was doing it flirtatiously, planted kisses on Bond’s cheek, and helped the injured agent into the kitchen so that he could make them both some tea. 

“You’re not going to give up until I fall in love with this stuff, are you?” Bond said when Q handed him a steaming mug of Earl Grey. 

“Drinking coffee is only going to rile you up; the caffeine hits your system too strong and mixes with your medications.” Q said pointedly. 

“Thanks mum. I forgot.” Bond snapped. He let his mug sit on the table for a bit as he looked around the kitchen. Bond had been trying for quite some time to retain his dependence on coffee, but Q had caught the agent making himself tea on more than one occasion. 

“Do you like how this room looks?” Bond asked suddenly. Q looked up.

“I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it.” Q shrugged. "It's nice." He added lamely. Bond had never been very interested in decorating. Nor had he ever found a particular use for the kitchen, so while the room was clean and outfitted well, everything had the distinct sheen of disuse. 

“Maybe we should redecorate.” Bond suggested. He picked up his mug to take a sip of the steaming liquid. 

“Why? It looks fine.” Q said. Bond’s flat had been decorated tastefully, even if the color palate only alternated between shades of white, crème, and eggshell. Q’s place had been painted various shades of dark green and blue, and the bathroom had had pinstriped wallpaper that, although Q had not chosen it, he had secretly been rather fond of. 

“The place could probably do with a touch up.” Bond said. 

“We’d have to move everything. And tape it. Not to mention the actual painting.” Q said, taking the seat opposite Bond. "It might be a bit much for you right now." Bond cringed, and Q mentally kicked himself. He should have phrased it better. Now he'd be lucky if Bond didn't paint the entire flat on his own purely out of the need to prove himself. 

“We can hire painters.” Bond said. “They can come in white jumpsuits and do those nice, diagonal strokes that those awful home shows are always dithering on about.”

“Or we can just leave things the way that they are.” Q replied.

“I just thought a little change would be nice, is all.” Bond said sourly. He picked up his mug and drank the remains of what was in the cup before standing and walking off; his gait slowed by his limp. 

Q knew that the last month had been particularly difficult for James. The agent had never been keen on taking time off; he preferred to be running through foreign cities and jungles. That compounded with Bond's frustrating lack of mobility had left the agent taciturn. 

“James-“ Q called after Bond.

“What, Q?” Bond stopped partway to the bedroom, his face arranged casually. But Q could see how heavily he was leaning on the wall. 

“I’ve been thinking…” _for the last three seconds._ “Maybe we should go somewhere. You could recuperate on a beach just as well as in the flat, I think. We might have to make a few adjustments, but in the end-“

“No.” Bond said, shaking his head. “Being an invalid in my own bloody house is enough.” 

It pulled at Q's heart to watch the agent take in a deep breath and push himself farther down the hall. He disappeared into the bedroom and Q knew better than to follow. Instead, Q cleared the mugs from the kitchen table and went into his office; passing the closed bedroom door on his way. He spent the afternoon taking care of a few programming and security needs for MI6, which included filing the week's surveillance outside of the numerous 00's homes, M's home, as well as Moneypenny and Tanner. 

Later that night Q laid on his stomach in the bed next to Bond; his arms crossed under his chin and his eyes watching the agent flip through a novel with his lips pulled into a tight line. Occasionally, Bond would flick his eyes over to meet Q’s, and although he knew that he was being watched, he didn’t say anything. 

Frustration aside, Q crawled his was up to the headboard and carefully laid a trail of kisses from Bond's temple down to his lips. Bond softened under his touch, and was pliant against Q. Q ran his hands through Bond's hair, and cupped the back of the agent's neck with one hand to hold him close. Then, he curled up along Bond's side and napped while Bond continued to read. 

Q woke up a half hour later and stretched a little. Bond gave him a small smile, barely touched by the frustration and sadness that always laid just below the surface. Q returned the smile and then slid off of the bed.

"I'm going to go out for a smoke really quickly." Q said, slightly embarrassed. He had only been a casual smoker until recently, but the intensity of working for MI6 had made his habit a bit more persistent. He went out to the front of the flat to smoke a cigarette. London was bustling in the fading light of the afternoon, and for a brief moment, Q wished that he had chosen a life that would have let him live among the people going about ordinary things with ordinary people. But then he reminded himself that his entire life up until that point had been mind-numbingly boring, and he hadn’t found it comforting. Not unlike Bond was currently finding his recovery. 

Q had finished one cigarette and was nearly done his second when a dark car with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. Assuming that someone from MI6 had come for Bond, Q turned to open the front door of the flat, glancing over his shoulder to see who was there. 

Suddenly, he felt an electric current shoot through his system. He crumpled to the ground, smashing his lenses on the stone steps, and was hauled into the trunk of the vehicle. One of the men returned to the front door and placed a small, black box on the topmost step. Then he got into the car, and it pulled away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: graphic depictions of violence.

Thin cords of rope bound Q’s wrists, which were pulled up over his head and tied midway up the wall. He was on his knees, facing the worn brick, and trying to catch his breath. His abductors had taken his glasses and his shirt, leaving his bare back exposed to the room. 

He couldn’t understand anything that was said to him, and he couldn’t see what they were doing while they paced the floor behind him. Q could hear the shutter sounds of a cell phone camera. The voices blended together. He felt lightheaded, and his arms ached. He tried to stand, but was immediately slammed across the back with something heavy and metal. He crumpled to the floor, small shocks sent through his knees and legs when he made impact with the concrete ground. 

There was the sound of water, pouring onto the floor. A very small _beep_ sounded, and Q’s stomach dropped. He heard the snap of leather before he felt it, but only by a fraction of a second. White-hot pain flashed behind Q’s eyes, and he felt the long band on his back where the wet leather had bit his skin. A second passed, and he was hit again. And again. And again. 

In an ideal world, Q wouldn’t have made a sound. He wouldn’t want to give his torturers the satisfaction. But it wasn’t an ideal world, and as the leather switched across his back in uneven, careless patterns Q cried out loudly. He could feel blood trickling down his spine, pooling on his legs and the floor.

And then he heard the delicate sound of chains. 

There was no bracing himself for these new blows. 

Initially, Q tried to ground himself by counting the lashes. He felt safer in numbers, in codes, in patterns. But as the seconds began to feel endless he wasn’t able to notice anything in his head except for the terrible pain and the ache in his throat as he gasped for breath in between screams. 

When his captors finally stopped, Q was sobbing quietly. He heard their laughter, the snap of pictures, and the sound of a video recorder being turned off. They left the room then, and Q was alone. 

\---

The first set of photographs were in an envelope, tied to a brick. It was the sound of the brick hitting his front door that sent Bond hobbling outside. He picked up the package, and tore it open. Then, he called Tanner. 

“Bond?”

“Get me M. They’ve made contact.” Bond said tersely. There was a shuffle on the other end of the line, and M came on. 

“What did they say?” 

“Nothing. They’ve sent photos.” Bond said, pulling out the images. His hands began to shake as he looked through the small sheaf, and he nearly dropped his phone. 

“-in the photos?” M had been speaking, but Bond only caught the end of the sentence. 

“They’re torturing him.” Bond said, his voice hollow. “They’ve not made a single demand, but they’re torturing him.” 

That was when he noticed the index card with a tidy scrawl on one side. It was a web address. 

“They’ve given me a weblink.” Bond said, limping towards Q’s office. He tried to keep the burning hatred towards his own broken body at bay as he moved. There was a netbook in the office that was kept unsecure for Bond’s use; so Bond could surf the internet while Q worked. Bond logged on, and typed in the address. 

“Don’t go to the link, Bond. Let us handle that here.” M said. Bond ignored him, and sat tensely as a black screen came up with a single video clip in the center of the page. The video started automatically. 

He watched for fifteen seconds as Q was whipped. He heard Q’s choked, desperate cries, and paused the video. He copied the url and began to compose an e-mail. 

“I’m sending the url to the MI6 server.” Bond said. “And I’m scanning the card and sending you the file for a handwriting analysis. If you want the photographs or the envelope you’ll have to send a courier.”

“Come in to Headquarters, Bond. You’d be better help here.” M said. 

“No.” Bond stood, and paced the short distance between the desk and the door and back again. “They took him from outside my flat. They sent the pictures to me. This is personal. They’re only going to contact me from here. I’m not leaving.”  
And then Bond hung up his phone, and sat back down at the computer. 

He watched the video all the way through; it only lasted five minutes. The last fifteen seconds he played over and over again; the whipping stopped, and Q was making wet, gasping sounds. Bond could see the ragged, torn remains of Q’s back and he watched him breathe unevenly until the video ran out. 

 

“Keep breathing, Q.” Bond murmured to himself. “I’m coming.” 

And then Bond set to work, intent on analyzing every piece of evidence he could gather from the minuscule sources that he had. 

An hour and a half later, Bond received a call from Eve. 

“We’ve analyzed the photographs and checked for DNA.” She said, skipping introductions. 

“And?” Bond asked. 

“The photographs were taken from a cell phone, uploaded, and then printed on one of those home photo printers. Someone is working on narrowing down the type and brands, see if we can’t trace a purchase. There’s a chance we can trace saliva from the envelope, but it’ll be difficult because of contamination. We also have technicians from Q Division tracing the video that was posted so that we can find where it was uploaded from. ”

“Keep me posted.” Bond said. 

“Of course Bond.” Eve replied. 

And then he waited.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un Beta'd, as always. 
> 
> This chapter has been my boulder, and I've had a rather difficult time trying to push it up the mountain, so I've decided to just publish it instead of agonizing so that I can move on to the later chapters. 
> 
> I'm telling you this to quell your rage. Please don't eat me.

Once the sun went down, the concrete room became ice cold and completely dark. Q fought against his own breath, trying to keep his lungs from expanding as much as possible. The smallest movement from his body pulled at his wrecked back and caused severe pain, which made him gasp, which caused even more pain. He was caught in a cycle; breath-life-pain-gasp-life-pain-sob-breath-life-pain, and over and over and over again. There was a heavy ache in his shoulders from his hands being held over his head for most of the day, and the entire length of his arms, from his fingertips to his shoulders, were numb. 

Sometime during the night someone opened a door on the wall behind Q, washing the thin Quartermaster in dim orange light. He squinted his eyes, and tried to keep his breathing even as footsteps approached him. Rough hands pulled at Q’s wrists and pressed a key into the lock on the cuff that bound him to the wall. Q’s hands fell heavily in front of him, and he let out a moan of pain. 

The man entwined his hand into Q’s hair and yanked forcefully upwards. Q cried out in pain, and received a punch to the gut from the man in response. He then pulled Q from the room, aiming hits to Q’s abdomen whenever he didn’t move quickly enough. They stumbled down a short hallway to a room with a heavy door. The man nudged it open and threw Q inside, shutting and locking it from the outside. 

The new room was smaller, dank, and was warmer only in that the moisture that clung to the air was thick and heavy. It took three steps for Q to walk from the center of the room to one wall, and he followed the wall around the perimeter of the room. He stumbled over a tangle of sheets in one corner, and banged painfully into a sink in another. The walls were made of slick tile, and Q realized that he was in the torn remnants of a rather large bathroom. 

Slowly, he spread out the thin sheets on the ground and lay on his stomach. Getting down to the floor was so unbelievably difficult that he didn’t want to imagine having to get up again. 

He thought of James, who would know that he was missing by that point. How would James handle being tortured? It wasn’t the same, because usually people tortured double-oh agents for information, and he wasn’t being asked for anything. He may be being held for a ransom, based on the pictures, but his tormentors didn’t seem to care much whether he lived or died, so that may not have been the case. 

\---

“We tracked the electronics that were being used. They were purchased in London a little over a week ago.” Moneypenny said, her voice rang out through the speaker on Bond’s cell phone. 

“They paid with a credit card?” Bond asked, incredulous. 

“No, but apparently the transaction was memorable enough for a teller who sold them the cell phones. He says they were Southeast Asian, barely spoke English. Q branch says that the names on the contracts were fakes, but we’re working on it.” Moneypenny said. 

“We’re running out of time, Moneypenny. M needs to put an agent on this.” Bond said. A tinge of desperation leaked into his voice. 

“M will do what he feels is best.” Moneypenny said patiently. “Until then, keep an eye out for any more messages. Maybe they’ll make a request soon.”

“Maybe.” Bond said, and hung up his phone. He resumed pacing the length of his flat despite the aching in his leg. As he walked he thought about the slashes on Q’s back, his cries, and mentally Bond tallied the risk of infection and how much longer Q could survive without medical attention. 

It didn’t look good. 

\---

No one came to see Q the next day, or the day after. No one came to give him food or water, and although the taps in the room worked, Q realized very quickly that he had been locked away to die. He wasn’t a hostage, or a potential informant, he was a ploy of some kind. 

When it hit him, he was shocked that he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

He was a revenge scheme.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un Beta'd.

_Five days without food._ Q tabulated mentally in his head. His body was racked with chills, but he knew that his skin was actually burning hot. _Infection setting into the wounds. Septicemia, most likely._ he diagnosed himself, sweat drawing out of every pore, as he lay on his stomach on the floor on top of the remaining sheet. The other he had torn into strips and done his best to clean up some of his back. Without soap, there wasn’t much that he could do, and he knew that the wounds needed serious antibiotics and maybe even skin grafting. But with nothing else to do but sit in the room and try to survive, Q had done his best. He used a part of the sheet to clean himself with, and then soaked another piece and rung it out thoroughly before draping it over the sink to dry. In the dankness of the room, it would take awhile, but eventually Q hoped to be able to use the moderately cleaner sheet as a bandage. 

If he didn’t die of blood poisoning first, that was. He estimated that he had two or three days left at best, and that time would mean nothing If he began to hallucinate first. 

\---

“There was a man you killed in Cambodia, as it would turn out, he was less of a simple drug lord and more of a regional kingpin.” M said to Bond, sliding a photograph across the desk. Bond glanced at the photo, and vaguely recognized the man that it depicted. He hadn’t been a target, but he had definitely been a casualty. M waited a second for Bond to look at the photograph, and then continued. 

“He had a brother who worked within his syndicate that took over for him. It seems they tracked you and abducted Q in revenge. That’s why they haven’t asked for a ransom, and I imagine that that’s why they’ve been sending things to you personally.”

“Can we find them?” Bond demanded, leaning forward in his seat. “We have to find them.” 

“We have our best working on tracking the images that you were sent. The moment that we have a location, we will assess the situation.” M said, regarding Bond cautiously.

“What is there to assess? We get the location, and we go in!” Bond snapped. 

“Our medical experts give Q another day at most to survive under favorable conditions, Bond. I am not risking more lives to recover a dead body. I’m sorry, I wish it weren’t this way, but you know where my priorities have to be.” 

“Fuck your priorities.” Bond snarled, standing. He pushed his chair aside and limped laboriously towards the studded leather door. “Bring him back alive, or you’ll wish that I was dead too.” 

“Bond-“ M stood, his concern plain on his face. Bond didn’t stop until he was through the door and passing Moneypenny’s desk. 

“Tell me if they find him.” He murmured when Eve glanced up at him. “Please.” 

Moneypenny nodded, and then watched quietly as Bond walked out of the room.

\---

His back was on fire. It had to be. Skin did not feel that way, Q was certain. He felt the heat from the back of his shoulders down to his hips. A red rash edged the entire wound, and it itched unlike anything Q had ever experienced before. 

_Just a few more hours._ He thought from where he lay on the floor. He was on his side, legs curled up against his sweaty chest. One arm was swung over his head, and the other was clutched tightly to his ribs. His lips were cracked and dry, but he couldn’t raise himself from the floor to drink from the sink. He didn’t even truly know when he was awake and when he was caught in feverish dreams. Everything blended in the darkness, and everything was wrapped in pain. 

In his few moments of clarity, or perhaps in the most intense moments of his dreams, Q thought of James. He wanted nothing more than to be curled up in bed with his double-oh agent, feeling the light heat of James’ arms around him. He missed the smell of the coffee that he drank and the way that James made his earl grey tea on the few mornings that Q was able to sleep in. 

He was supposed to be there to take care of James. Q was going to spend however long it took to get James reinstated as a double-oh agent, if that was what Bond wanted, and then they were going to retire from MI6 in a house in the country away from surveillance cameras and terrorists. 

With a sinking feeling, Q realized that he had never gotten a chance to tell the pass code to his storage unit, which meant that all of their Christmas decorations would rot in a tin box and James would have to buy everything from scratch, if he bought them again at all. And there wouldn’t be anyone around to duck low in their cabinets to help James pull out the blender. His leg made it difficult to kneel, and so Q had been helping him retrieve things. James’ life, which he had protected from the outside influence of personal vulnerability for so long, would now have to adjust to Q’s absence. 

This realization allowed despair to unfurl in the hollow of Q’s chest. For the first time since the day that he had been whipped, Q began to cry. His tears were quiet, but they pooled in his eyes and ran slowly down his cheeks all the same. 

\---

To: Bond  
From: MPenny

517 South Burberry Street. Three-storey grey building. Abandoned.   
Be safe.   
Bring him back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un Beta'd

_Just let me die._ Q thought over and over again. He hadn’t moved from the floor in hours. Not since one of his captors had come in and leveled an impossibly cruel kick to Q’s chest, another to his groin, and a third to his stomach with steel-toed boots. Then the man snapped a photograph and then left, shutting the door behind him and leaving Q in semi-darkness. 

Q’s breathing was coming in shallow, wet gasps that didn’t seem to be doing much besides prolonging his pain. The cloth that he had put on his back to try to keep out bacteria was stuck to him; his wounds were oozing blood and infection. 

After a while, he began to imagine that he was back in Bond’s apartment, lying on the scratchy carpeting that he had always hated. Bond was just in the other room, making coffee or cooking lunch. He would be out soon, and probably tease Q for lying on the floor. 

“Q, are you okay?” Bond asked, and Q was so relieved to hear Bond’s voice that he didn’t care that it wasn’t really there. He was just happy to feel close to Bond in his final moments. 

“I hate this carpeting, James. We should really do something about it.” Q croaked out in reply. 

“What?” Bond asked. 

“This damn flooring. You need to change it. Something softer.” Q murmured. He could feel a darkness pulling at him, and he wanted nothing more than to give into it. 

“Q, shit. Q look at me. I need you to hold on.” Bond’s voice said, heavy with desperation. 

“I’m fine, James. I’m just lying here.” Q said, trying to assure his hallucination. 

“Goddamnit, Q… Q please.” Bond’s voice was begging, pleading. 

“It’s so dark, James. I’m so tired.” Q whispered. 

And then everything fell away, and Q was left in darkness. 

\---

The room was a pale green. The curtains on the window weren’t white, but some kind of vanilla color. There were a few watercolors on the walls. Q turned his head, but his back protested sharply, and he groaned in pain. He registered the beeping from machines behind his head. A few moments later, two nurses rushed in, followed closely by Bond. 

“Lay back, sir.” One of the nurses said. The other held Bond at the end of the bed, keeping him from approaching. 

“James.” Q rasped. His throat was dry, as if it hadn’t been used in years. He tried the name again. “James, where am I?” 

“Let him over.” An older man said, entering the room. The nurse stepped aside, and Bond limped to Q’s bedside. He kissed Q’s forehead, his cheeks, his lips. 

“I almost lost you.” Bond whispered gently. “I nearly didn’t find you in time.” 

“I didn’t think anyone would come for me.” Q said tiredly. “They didn’t ask me for anything. They just wanted to kill me.”

“They were trying to get to me.” Bond said, running his fingers through Q’s hair. “And they nearly succeeded.” 

“If Mr. Bond hadn’t found you within the hour, you would have died for certain.” The doctor said, walking forward to move the hospital bed from a laying to an upright position. Q’s breath came out as a hiss as his body reacted painfully. “I’m sorry, but the infection is still healing. I need to check your bandages.” 

“How long have I been here?” Q asked. 

“A week.” Bond said, shifting with Q. As they moved, Bond kept a part of his body in contact with Q’s skin at all times. Q didn’t resist. “You were taken to the intensive care wing at MI6 medical at first, because the infection was such a risk, but once you were stable we had you moved to a care center closer to the flat. I thought you would be more comfortable.” Bond said. 

“Thank you.” Q said. 

He wasn’t able to go back to the flat for another three weeks. Q’s skin healed slowly, and eventually the wounds were replaced with long, ugly scars that crisscrossed his back. The new, pink skin was painful to the touch, and Q would be sleeping on his stomach for a very long time. 

Worse than the physical scars was a heavy, brooding paranoia that now plagued Q. He had nightmares of being back in the warehouse where he had been kept. During the day, the sound of the cars outside made him jump. Knocks on the door gave him panic attacks, and he couldn’t stand to be alone. 

Bond promised him that it would get better, but Q wasn’t sure if he believed it. 

Mostly, Q took solace in Bond. For the moment, he could be okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part Four coming soon!


End file.
